He’s still in work clothes, and incredibly handsome, as usual: white dress shirt with the cuffs rolled back, slacks a shade darker than the usual navy, tie slung loose around his neck like he forgot it was even there. His hair is messy, the line of his jaw dark with new stubble. He looks at me and his harsh features relax for a second, but only for a flash.
“Hey,” I call, too bright, too eager. “You’re home early. Sauce is almost done, so don’t eat any of your protein bars or I’ll throw them in the trash.”
He huffs a laugh, but it’s a fraction of what I expect.
He shrugs off his coat, drapes it over a barstool. “That’s a threat,” he says, but his voice is far away.
I watch him, eyes curious, and go back to the stove, pretending to taste the sauce. But the air is different now. The kitchen is still bright, but it feels like we’re in a snow globe, and someone has shaken it hard.
“How was work?” I ask, careful, giving him an out.
My man rubs a hand over his face, eyes pinched shut. “It was fine. I—” He stops, then opens the fridge and grabs a bottle of sparkling water, twisting it open with one pop. He doesn’t drink. Just stares at the bottle, condensation already beading down the label. “I have to talk to you about something, Mary Kate.”
That’s not the answer I want. It freaks me out that he used my name because these days, I’m always “sweetheart” or “baby” to my man. I keep stirring, my back to him. The garlic is starting to brown at the edges, but I don’t care.
“Is it about the hospital?” I say, trying for breezy. “Are you going to tell me you finally got the board to stop funding that weird plastic-surgery vending machine?”
He snorts, but it’s just a twitch at the edge of his mouth.
“Not about the hospital,” he says.
There’s a quiet, then, the kind that gets into your bones. I turn the burner to low, click it off, and finally face him. He’s standing at the end of the island, both hands braced on the marble, blue eyes locked to mine and not blinking.
My hand stills on the wooden spoon, and I grip it tight, as if it’s the only thing keeping me from falling.
He doesn’t say anything. He just looks at me, and in that second I know nothing is ever going to be the same again.
Kent doesn’t move,not at first. The kitchen could be a courtroom for how quiet it gets—no music, no simmer, just the two of us locked into this little diorama of total suspension. Kent holds the edge of the marble so tight I can see the blood flush out of his knuckles, but the rest of him is cold, motionless, like he’s prepping for surgery.
I slide into the chair across from him, legs pulled up under my body, the flannel shirt ballooned around me like a safety net. For a second, neither of us says anything. I pick at the dry skin on my thumb, waiting for the next move.
Kent is the one who breaks. His voice is rough, almost unrecognizable. “You know we’ve gotten close lately. Closer than I ever expected.”
He waits for me to answer, so I do. “I think so too,” I say. “I’m happy though. I like it like this. I love it like this.” It’s true. Even now, with the tension warping the space between us, I want to reach across and touch him, to feel the heat of his hand on my thigh.
He looks up, eyes flaring blue. “I don’t want to ruin that.”
“You’re not,” I say, but he holds up a hand to silence me.
He draws a breath so long I think he’s going to pass out. “There’s something I need to tell you. Two things, actually.”
I wait. I’ve learned patience from him.
“First, the medical thing,” he says, and his voice cracks a bit. “The testicular stones. I do have them. But they don’t cause me any pain, and never have. They’ve always been benign.” His lips twist, not quite a smile. “But I wanted you to take care of me. I wanted you to have an excuse to touch me, and so I made up the pain and discomfort, claiming that I needed nightly testicle massages.”
It’s a confession, but it doesn’t land the way he thinks it will. I almost laugh. “You lied to get a handjob?” I say, eyebrows up.
He smiles, but it’s a bare thing, all teeth. “Yes. I lied to get your attention, and the rest came later.” He pauses, breathing through the shame. “So yes, the massages—those were for me. Not medical at all.”
The air thins. I think about all the times I stroked his balls, the way he’d close his eyes, the growl in his chest. I should be mad, but instead I’m just… relieved. “I suspected,” I say in a slow tone.
He shoots me a half-smile. “How? Because I enjoyed your massages so much?”
I smile back at him. “Yes, but other things too. You don’t flinch when you sit down. You lift weights and are mobile in the gym. You fucked me like you were trying to break the bed, which takes flexibility, durability, and stamina. No one with chronic pain can do that.”
He blinks. “So you knew.”
I shrug. “Maybe not at first. But it made you happy. So I did it.”
